


the play's the thing

by vowelinthug



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, poor theater production, weirdly intimate non-sexual touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 04:30:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13709856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug/pseuds/vowelinthug
Summary: ...wherein i'll catch the conscience of the king.AKA The Trial of John & James--set between 3x2-3x3 wherein the crew is bored and slowly starving to death so they put on a show





	the play's the thing

**Author's Note:**

> based on a tumblr post i saw that said pirates did this sort of thing when bored at sea. i didn't bother checking to see if that's true but ofc pirates are lame ass theater kids
> 
> part of my unofficial out of sequence incongruous season 3 touch-starved silverflint series that doesn't actually exist, but boy, if it did....

* * *

Silver doesn’t get the luxury of avoiding the cargo hold. They’ve been becalmed three days now and he trusts no one else to count their remaining supplies. The men can only be relied on to properly count their own shares of plunder.

The first day, when the waters had receded, the holes plugged, and Flint had still been unconscious, some other men had come down here and pushed the cannon away from Muldoon’s body. They’d given him a quick, solemn send off. Silver hadn’t said anything. The air had been as still as Muldoon’s chest, the sea only moving from the impact of his body. It hasn’t moved since.

It’s been three days, but Silver can walk down those stairs to the hold without expecting cold, black water to rise around him, without once looking in that corner of the ship he’d been helpless, helpless, _helpless_ to do anything but hold a hand. He’s always thought that to be a pointless gesture, accomplishing nothing, and now he knows it to be true.

He’s counting the stock again, making constant adjustments to their rationing for each day the wind fails to blow, when Billy finds him. He’s never liked standing next to Billy anyway, but seeing his arms — his muscles, his casual, unassuming strength — beside the cannons makes something sour rise up in his throat, acidic and hot. He forces it down; he’s in no position to lose what little he has.

“The men are planning to put on a show,” Billy says.

“Okay,” says Silver. He’s not surprised. It’s not like they have much else to do, and they still have enough strength to be likely to kill each other if they have no other outlet.

Either Billy disagrees, or he’s got something more to say, because he doesn’t leave. He hovers. Silver pauses where he’s counting the hardtack. “What,” he says, “do they need someone to play the leading lady?”

“No.” Billy makes a face, at the mental image or what he’s about to say next, Silver isn’t sure. “Their play is about you.”

“Me?”

“And Flint.”

Silver wants to say something petty about that, like _don’t let the Captain hear you referring to me in the same sentence as him._ You and Flint. That burning feeling sinks like Muldoon’s body, lower to his stomach, and smolders at the thought. “What about us?” he asks, throat catching on _us._

“It’s your trial,” says Billy. “The one you two were meant to have before you stole the warship. After —  after Gates.”

“Jesus Christ.” Silver lets the lid to the hardtack crate fall with a bang. “You couldn’t have steered _away_ from a mutiny story against their current Captain and Quartermaster?”

“What would you suggest, _The Tempest?_ ” Billy asks, folding his arms. “ _Hamlet?”_

“Literally — anything but those three things.” They’ve certainly had their share of storms. And mad kings.

“I’m actually looking forward to it,” says Billy. “I missed this all the first time around. Though I think it’s largely fictitious. You two weren’t actually both fucking Eleanor Guthrie and conspiring with her to overthrow the King, were you?”

“No.”

“Just checking.”

Silver sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Why are you telling me, if you have no plans to do anything about it?”

“I was hoping you’d step in, in case the _Captain_ decides to do something about it.”

“And why would he want to interfere?” Silver asks. “You know he’s known for his grand, self-deprecating sense of humor.”

Billy frowns. “Just make sure it doesn’t turn into a real mutiny, please,” he says, like that’s ever been easy. Flint attracts mutinies like a dog attracts fleas.

In this instance, though, Silver’s not sure there actually will be a problem. Flint has barely acknowledged the crew since he awoke after the storm. He stays in his cabin all day, towering over his maps like a lost God. Silver would say Flint doesn’t even know his crew is alive, but that’s not really it. The problem, for Flint, is that they all still are.

“Curtains at dusk,” says Billy, finally leaving him. “I guess they’ve had this one in the works for a bit.”

“Lucky us,” says Silver, turning back to the hardtack. “Wouldn’t want the revolt to start with something _slapdash_ , would we?”

But Silver isn’t really angry. He’s too hungry to be angry. He spent most of his youth this way, so it’s very rare for him to know genuine rage. Being becalmed makes him feel like a child again, even when he feels a hundred years old with each step he takes.

Besides, the ship is stiller than if they were on land, and the men are all dying slow. A revolt would only grant he and Flint quick deaths. Despite all their grievances, or perhaps because of them, no one thinks they deserve that.

“It’ll be fine,” says Billy. When Silver looks up, Billy is on those stairs, and he has to look back down fast. “Just keep the Captain calm.”

The sea is never meant to be calm, yet somehow it is. If there’s any man should prove more unpredictable than the sea, it’s Flint.

 

* * *

 

It’s…. not the worst play Silver has ever seen aboard a ship. But it’s close.

Billy had drawn a line at using any of their gunpowder for visual effects, so the production value is a little shit. The actors stand before a lowered, useless sail, the orange sunset behind illuminating it to a sickly, fiery glow. Not even a gentle breeze flaps at it, so some of the crew stand to the side, shaking it whenever necessary. Degroot is off in the wings of their stage, nervously making sure they don’t break anything important.

“These men have conspired to murder our Quartermaster, Hal Gates!” shouts Greenwood, doing a fair impression of Dufresne, in that he’s being especially obnoxious, voice high, a broken piece of glass over his face for eyeglasses. He holds a paper aloft, and the few real crew members pretending to be the fake crew members in the show gasp aloud.

In an effort to be sensitive, probably at Billy’s request, they leave out the actual murder of Gates. The play begins right afterwards.

“We’ve done no such fucking thing!” cries Lonny, who managed to dig up a bright red scarf to wrap around his head. He’s sweating heavily, not unaware of the risk inherent in taking up the role. “How dare you speak to your Captain, your king, in such a way, you motherfucking cur!”

“Yeah,” says Madewell, nervously twisting the long black shirt that hangs over his head and down his shoulders. “We’re innocent, we’ve done no such thing, honest to God!” Madewell flutters his eyelashes, causing the audience to roar with laughter.

Billy was wrong to worry about _Flint’s_ reaction. Silver feels like killing them all. He’s leaning on the rail, away from the men. He wonders how many of them he might be able to throw overboard before he’s restrained.

“You have indeed!” Greenwood hits Lonny and Madewell in the face with the paper. “Mr. Gates wrote all about it, as well as a myriad of your other dastardly crimes against your hardworking, innocent crew, just before you killed him.”

“How’d he go and write about his own murder, then?” someone asks loudly from the audience, causing more laughter.

“Quick,” continues Greenwood, flushing, glasses slipping slightly, “seize them before they escape!”

They’ve apparently decided to skip over the firefight and the destruction of the _Walrus_ , which is fine for everyone. The crew beside the sails whip them dramatically to indicate the change in scene as the two actors dressed as Silver and Flint are whisked to the other side of the makeshift stage. They’re thrust onto a barrel to share, their arms tied to each other like chains. Greenwood steps up on a smaller box, a white cap on his head like a judge, but he’s still wearing his Dufresne glasses, so maybe he’s both. Above them all, now, is Joji, sitting high on a pile of crates. He’s in all black and looking usually stern, his sword resting calmly in his lap. He’s Death.

The men are all cheering now, happy for the trial to start. All of them, the actors, the audience, look sunken in the failing light, everyone sharp and darkened by hunger. They look like shadow puppets, cast long against the still sails. Silver looks away, having little desire to keep watching, when he sees Flint sitting on the stairs to the upper deck.

His face is unreadable, even as the men start lighting too many lanterns against the rising night. After siege, storm, and starvation, why shouldn’t they risk burning the ship down, too?

Silver can’t tell Flint’s expression, but he’s yet to ever see a good one there. Hearing Billy’s voice in his head, he pushes off the rail with a weak sigh. He moves like a sick sword swallower; each shuddering step sharpens the pains in his stomach.

He doesn’t say anything when he reaches Flint. He supposes all he has to do is be fast enough to catch him should he make a lunge for the crew. But Flint doesn’t look angry, which is unusual because he always looks livid, now. Instead he just looks pensive, eyes fixed on the show.

“You stand accused of a many great crimes!” shouts Greenwood in that put-upon high voice. Each time he speaks, he has to pause to allow for the laughter. “How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” says Lonny, “you motherfucking curs.”

“I have here your many list of crimes,” says Greenwood, pulling out a scroll longer than his arm.

“Wait,” says Madewell, jerking forward and nearly pulling Lonny off the barrel with him. “What’s on that list? Are you trying to convict us for crimes against the crown, too?”

“No. These are just your crimes against your crew….” Greenwood paused for effect, before adding, “but I suppose we might as well.” He releases the bottom of the scroll and it tumbles to the floor and keep rolling off the stage. The crowd goes wild.

“I think the hunger is making them all delirious,” Silver says lightly, trying to keep everything _calm_. “That joke was coming from a mile away.”

The faintest sound escapes Flint, either a grunt or a snort, Silver can’t say. Silver isn’t expecting any kind of response, but then Flint says quietly, “This is your first _Walrus_ production. They’ve never been particularly known for their high-brow entertainment.”

Silver’s almost too startled to respond. “I know,” he says eventually. “If you remember, their favorite source of entertainment used to be beating the shit out of me.”

“Old habits,” Flint says, as Lonny stands up in a rage, making Madewell fall back and bang his head on the barrel. The crew is in hysterics as they get briefly tangled by their handcuffs.

“Sit,” Flint says suddenly, viciously, like the word had to be spit out after rolling around on his tongue for too long. Silver meets his eye, knowing that even a man so tormented as Flint can still try to pity him for his leg, knowing it as fact because he’d _seen_ it, those first few minutes after he’d awoken and ruined everything himself. Flint ached from his own agony, but isn’t incapable of seeing others in theirs, but he usually just ignores it. If Flint isn’t ignoring it now, Silver will just walk away and let Flint tear the crew to shreds.

But Flint just says, “You can’t see properly over there.”

There’s no room to sit side by side on the stairs, and there’s no real way he can excuse walking passed Flint to sit behind him. So instead his sits a step below, back stiff and unable to relax. How’s he supposed to relax, with Captain Flint behind him?

The answer, it seems, is _slowly,_  as he feels the warmth emanating from Flint, as he feels Flint’s knee gently graze his arm, as he feels hollow breaths near his ear as Flint leans forward to listen. Silver slowly relaxes.

“This list is both long and nefarious,” says Greenwood, “and if I don’t start now, we’ll be here all night.” He clears his throat, waits a beat, and then begins to read. “Theft.”

It’s the funniest punchline this crowd has ever heard. Silver’s actually a little worried that some of them might actually pass out. It’s definitely the hunger manifesting as hysteria. He can even hear Flint chuckle a little. No. He doesn’t hear it. He feels it.

Finally, Greenwood is able to continue. “Conspiracy,” he reads. “Conspiracy to murder, conspiracy to theft, conspiring against the wellbeing of this crew, multiple counts of endangering the lives of this crew, assault  —”

“What’s that, then?” someone from the audience yelled.

“Kicked the everloving shit outta us,” someone else replied.

“Torture,” Greenwood went on forcefully, “brigandage, looting, pillaging, kidnapping, undermining our democracy, plotting with Eleanor Guthrie to overtake Nassau, attempting to overthrow the Crown, cruelty to animals —”

“Hang on,” Silver mutters under his voice. “What cruelty to animals?”

“Hey!” says Madewell, “What cruelty to animals?”

Greenwood looks at him with particularly accurate disdain. “By informing the crew of which among us has had intimate relations with the dairy goat, thus sullying her good name!” Everyone crows with laughter.

Silver slumps on the stairs. “That’s not fair. I did that _after_ this whole thing.”

He hears a strange sound behind him. He looks over his shoulder, and there is a smile on Flint’s face. It looks like a sudden split across coarse, white stone, where an axe might have struck it. It looks unnatural, almost painful, because Silver knows starvation and dehydration pulls sharply on the skin, where everything feels like it might tear. The only way Silver knows it’s a smile and not a grimace is by the light in his eyes. The lack of sustenance is really beginning to affect everyone. “You have to admit, it’s a spot-on impression,” Flint says.

“You’re not actually _enjoying_ this, are you?” Silver asks indignantly, refusing to admit anything.

Greenwood continues with his list, though it’s hard to hear over the men still laughing. “Smuggling, sailing under false colors, vandalism, destruction of property, destruction of -- “

Flint shrugs a little, a harsh movement. He says something, the same laughter in his eyes, but Silver can’t hear it.

“What?”

Silver leans back as Flint leans forward, but it’s too _close_ for Silver to look at him. He can only give Flint his ear, so he looks out at the rolling darkness outside the ship, the stars pointing them in every direction in which they’re incapable of moving toward. He sees all the ways he could go home, if only the wind would blow, if only he knew where that was, if only home meant a place he wanted to be, and Flint whispers into his ear, “It was a simpler time.”

“—forgery, staging a mutiny, gratuitous use of irony, collaborating with secret societies to systemically extort local merchants, poisoning via swine—”

It takes a moment for Flint’s words to solidify in Silver’s mind, because Flint hasn’t moved away yet. A simpler time. A time when it felt like they were on the same side. A time when _he_ had Flint’s ear, when he could whisper to him in the dark, away from the crew, always the two of them kept apart. This is the first pirate crew Silver has sailed with, and yes the lack of law and order made the rules easier to follow, but nothing had been simple about the last year. Not since the moment Flint pressed his whole body against sea-sprayed rock and demanded something from him. Something he feels he has to yet to deliver, but something he feels he might want to.

Silver leans away to catch Flint’s gaze again, half turning on the steps. He needs to see if the bone-weary mirth is still on his face. Silver isn’t sure if he plans to argue, or just roll his eyes, or God, say anything to keep the air light between them.

Then, Greenwood says, “Perjury, bribery, public indecency, depravity, buggery, sodomy—”

It might have gone unnoticed if they hadn’t been looking at each other, if they hadn’t been sitting so close. Silver freezes. Flint freezes. The audience roars.

Silver doesn’t say anything, which is as bad as saying something. The cragged smile slips from Flint’s face. He’s so pale from the days hidden in his cabin, from illness, from life, so it’s visible when the tops of his cheeks redden slightly.

Silver should move. Why can’t he move? Everyone else has moved on in the story, why is he stuck staring at Flint like before he looked at the stars, seeing both answers and their questions in the constellation of the green in his gaze, the tic in his jaw, the twitch of his hands? Perhaps it’s because he hasn’t ever been able to be this near to the man without taking his the warmth of his body -- he burns like a hearth. It’s the first time in days the cold ocean and the colder rain has receded from his skin, his memory, his lungs. Together they’re generating enough embarrassed heat to dry out the Atlantic.

“And,” says Greenwood, “of course, multiple counts of murder. To be sure, gentlemen, your treachery truly knows no bounds.”

Flint blinks, and it’s like the heavens open once again, Silver’s body a leaking ship and the icy waters rising inside as Flint turns his attention back to the play. Silver can’t look back yet, though. He keeps one eye on Flint, one eye on the stars.

Greenwood waits for the crowd to stop jeering and booing before continuing. “We all know that Captain Flint has sold his soul to the devil, to be capable of such heinous villainy,” he says. “But what say you, Mr. Silver? You are new to our crew. Were you just caught in Flint’s powerful sway, or are ye just as much a devil as he?”

There’s a long pause. Silver can hear a shuffle on the stage, presumably Madewell and Lonny trying to rearrange themselves despite being tied together. Silver closes his eyes. He waits for an answer he’s been searching for since the day he saw Flint bathed in blood and felt something equally red rise up inside him. The ship is silent.

Madewell clears his throat. “I believe in Captain Flint. I trust him to do right by the crew, and right by me. He’s always been honest with me, and he’s always done what’s best for me. He is a true friend, yessir, and a good Captain. Everything he’s done has been in the service of this crew. I believe that, just as I believe in him!”

“Now kiss!” someone yells out, and the laughter reaches new heights.

Silver feels a light tug on his hair, and he opens his eyes again. He’s still facing to the side, off the ship, but he can sort of see Flint looking down at his hands. The tugging persists, and Silver realizes faintly that Flint’s got a lock of his hair, and he’s idly twisting it around his finger. It’s like he’s trying to find the secret to something in the ends of Silver’s curls. It’s like Silver’s hair is the only thing tethering him to the world.

“Then you are a devil and a villain, same as he,” Greenwood says. “The crew will go now and decide your fates, though I figure we won’t take long to reach the inevitable conclusion.”

Silver turns back to the show just in time for the punchline: two nooses slap down over the top of the stage’s sail, on both sides of Joji. The audience laughs again. Silver stops feeling a pull on the back of his head, so he leans back against the stairs. Flint’s boot presses a little into his side, and the tug returns. He can feel Flint’s knuckles grazing his shoulder.

Greenwood leaves the stage, and then it’s just Lonny and Madewell alone, with Death called Joji above.

“What are we to do, Captain?” Madewell asks. They are rather ridiculously close to each other. Silver would argue the inaccuracy of that, but he’s about this close to resting his head on Flint’s knee. He should move. He’s afraid to move. He’s afraid to breathe.  

He wonders if this has to do with the hunger, but Silver has starved before and he’s never felt like this.  Flint isn’t the first person who’s hated him, but he’s the first person who remained close anyway. Flint isn’t the first person who’s hated him, but he’s the first person Silver hasn’t run from.

“Did you really mean all that fucking shit you said?” Lonny asks, walking across the stage fitfully, pulling Madewell along. Someone in the crowd begins to bang rhythmically on some wood, a steady beat. “About fucking trusting me and all that rot?”

“I did, Captain,” Madewell says, looking up at Lonny imploringly. He flutters his eyelashes again. “You have my true friendship. As I hope I have yours.”

Lonny stares at Madewell for a long time, like he might have forgotten his next line. Someone coughs, which seems to rouse him a bit.

“Fuck these men!” he cries triumphantly. He grabs Madewell’s shoulders, and the beat begins to quicken. “If we can get out of here, do you solemnly swear to fight, steal, pillage, fuck, maim, and murder whoever I say, whenever I say, and trust me to lead you plunder beyond your wildest fucking dreams?”

“I’ve dreamt of a _lot_ of plunder, Captain,” says Madewell, “but I surely do swear.”

The audience cheers. Several people are beating now on makeshift drums. Lonny leaps up onto the barrel, nearly ripping Madewell’s arm off as he scrambles up after him. “Do you promise to do everything to undermine the Crown who thinks he owns these waters, to sack every village of all their earthly goods and fill our hoards with gold, to fix the hearts of every cad on this mangy fucking earth ‘til they fear us as surely as they God?”

“Aye, Captain!” Madewell shouts. “I swear it upon my rotting, black soul!” He stomps twice upon the crate, and the whole crew does it back.

Silver doesn’t know why it’s taken him this long to realize this was propaganda, and of course they weren’t actually going to execute them. But in his defence, Flint is still touching his hair. Also he’s eaten only twice in three days.

“Then fuck these men,” Lonny says again. “Fuck the judge, and fuck death too.”

The noose above his head shifts lower. Lonny grabs Madewell’s hand, laces their fingers, and together they grab the noose. Suddenly, they’re lifted sharply up into the air.

As they go, Madewell swipes out at Joji on his crates. It doesn’t connect, but Joji’s head snaps dramatically to the side and he gracefully tumbles down to the floor, landing on his feet. They keep lifting higher until, as one, the crew members on the side snuff out the stage lights, and the drums stop.

The cheers sweep the crew like a tidal wave, sudden, high, overwhelming, before it crashes back down again. Once it subsides, the lanterns are lit again, and a few people have started to mill around, but it looks like most of them have used up what little energy they have. The actors are already sitting back against the sail, sweating hard, faces jaundiced, but looking pleased when crew members come over to shake their hand and pat them on the back. Everyone’s chatting happily, though, and not a one of them is talking about the lack of wind.

Silver feels the grunt of exertion on the back of his neck as Flint rises to leave. He brushes by without a word, and it’s just hanging there in front of Silver. He doesn’t know what makes him do it. Maybe it’s the ghost of warmth at his back, the tingle in the ends of his hair. Maybe it’s the idea of the two of them, escaping.

He reaches out and holds Flint’s hand.

Flint stops. It seems he wants to get away without saying anything more to Silver, without any of the crew seeing him. He’s staring hard at the floor, but just Silver’s grip on him causes him to tilt slightly, like he’s ready to keel over at any second.

Silver doesn’t know what to say. He just doesn’t want the last hand he’ll ever hold to be Muldoon’s as he went. He says, wishing he had the saliva to swallow, “Thanks for saving me from the noose, Captain.”

Flint looks up. He’s hollowed by the lamp light, skin almost the same color as his beard. His eyes are too pale to see as they look down at their clasped hands and back up to Silver’s face. He’s all of Silver’s hunger pains made flesh — a creature yearning, a man parched.

“Thanks for punching Death for me, Mr. Silver,” Flint says. “It’s only a pity it didn’t stay down for long.”

He squeezes Silver’s hand lightly, with probably as much strength as he has left, before heading back to his cabin.

Flint demands of Silver, and has since they first met. His page, his compliance, his information, his loyalty, his trust. His truth. He demands these things from Silver, but sometimes it seems like he’s begging for them, too.  

The crew crawl to their beds, or head to their night stations. A few people come over to Silver to make sure he’s okay, or that he’s not mad, or that the Captain’s not going to kill them in their sleep. Once his assurances are believed, they all shuffle off, Billy only raising an eyebrow when Silver waves him away.

He sits on the stairs a little while longer, watching the stars.

* * *

 


End file.
